


6:15 and counting

by Ladyboo



Series: Stardust and Vulcan Sands [4]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, I feel like I should give a warning for Sybok even though he doesn't actually appear, Nudity, Panic Attacks, epileptic character - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-09-20 14:22:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9495581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladyboo/pseuds/Ladyboo
Summary: Living with Sybok, he tended to expect a lot of things. Vaguely inappropriate touching, questionable conversation and relatively dubious science? Check really, on all of those. That didn't prepare him for Sybok's younger brother, Spock, occasionally crashing on their couch, and any situation that arose due to said crashing.





	

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: My beta is currently asleep, and since she's on the other side of the pond, I've got no means to wake her. That aside, frankly, the woman needs her sleep, lets be real here. So, for the next 24ish hours, this fic is unedited, but I've been given the green light to post it!

It was only 6:15 in the morning, and Sybok was going to kill him.

The heavy _thump thump thump_ that echoed in the space between his ears wasn’t just in his head, wasn’t the visceral, overwhelming throb of his heartbeat signaling that an episode was going to drop him to the ground sooner rather than later. Jim had come awake with a start, groggy and fearful all at once, thick tongued and copper breathed and _scared_ , muscles tensing even as he tried his fucking best to stay still, to stay calm. Except, it had ended there, with no follow up and no tremor setting uncontrollably through his limbs, and instead, the copper quality to his breath came from the nose bleed that was matted to the rest of his face where it had dried during his sleep, a reminder that he needed to get his humidifier fixed.

That _thump thump thump_ came again, with a muffled sound of a voice that he couldn’t quite place, and it wasn’t in his head, wasn’t the tribal, primal call of a seizure waiting to set in.

Frowning, rubbing at the blood that he could feel crusted to his mouth, Jim swung himself out of bed on sleep stiff legs. Wobbling for a moment, head rushing from the sudden change, he groused to himself as he yanked his bedroom door open to peek across the open expanse of their living and dining room. Except, Sybok’s door was closed tight, with no signs of conscious life coming from the other side, and Jim scowled, slipping out of his own room on rapidly cooling feet into the softly lit living area.

The knocking against the door didn’t cease, and instead, as he grew closer, trudging down past the washer and dryer closet and to the end of the hall where the door stood just around the corner, it turned into a full-fisted pound that had him reeling back just as soon as he was about to peer through the peephole. Frowning harshly, lips smacking together and the side of his fist still valiantly trying and failing to clean the blood away from his upper lip and cheeks, Jim glared in groggy offense.

“Jim, I know you’re in there! Answer the fucking door!”

The frustration in his system coiled harsh and cold then, icy against his lungs and heavy-sharp in his belly, settling like fragments of shattered glass and piercing nails against his insides. He knew that voice, without hesitation, and he took a staggering step back until he collided with the wall behind him, blue eyes blown wide. His breathing was a fretful crescendo, heart thundering in his chest and his head grew light, an unsettled, queasy feeling festering in his belly. Taking slow, staggering steps back down the hall, Jim flinched as the knocking came again, stumbling over himself to get back into the living area, even as he refused to turn his back on the door.

“I saw your fucking bike, Kirk!”

Nearly numb fingers skimming the wall as he tumbled into the open space of the main living area, the presence of noise from _behind_ him made his breath catch in his chest. Freezing in place, a slight turn of his head showed that Sybok’s door was still shut, and the lack of his friend’s voice from behind him made his breath turn into a wheeze.

That was the sound of someone at the couch though, the rustling of blankets and the sound of an almost silent yawn, and Jim felt ready to vibrate out of his own skin. Someone was in his home, someone that he hadn’t seen, hadn’t known they were there, and he felt the familiar taste of terror start to bubble cloyingly within his throat.

“Jim, it is indecorous to have such a verbal guest at this hour.”

“ _Spock_.”

The growing, gnawing panic seeped from his body at that dry, imperious tone first thing in the morning. There was a slight stretch to it, a catch where Spock’s breath struggled to turn into a yawn, but that was the only inclination he gave to the exhaustion he must have felt. For when Jim turned to look at the other man, he was in a state of disarray unlike any Jim had ever witnessed from the proper, traditional Vulcan.

Sleek black hair spiked up at a pressed angle on one side of his head, tangled and nearly curled on the other, Spock is unkempt in a way that Jim never thought he would be privy to see. The moment is intimate, both of them bare chested and soft-featured from sleep, and the three empty bottles of Betazoid chocolate liquor on the coffee table speak of what must have transpired between the Vulcan brothers after he himself fell asleep.

Judging the Rube Goldberg Machine competition must have gone well then.

Said half-Vulcan stared at him with a lazy irritation in his dark eyes, a question in the sharp slant of his brow. There was patience there though, that same unwavering, unquestioning patience that silently spoke of how Spock would wait hours for Jim to say whatever was on his mind, a task he had undergone more than once. With it though, there was something there that Jim couldn’t name, held in those fathomless, dark eyes, and he stood loose-limbed and windswept beneath that gaze.

The pounding on the door came once again, enough that he heard it rattle on its hinges, and a flinch ran sharp and quick through his entire body, so fierce that a fine boned ache set through him.

Spock rose from the couch then, blanket pooling at his feet, and his eyes were narrowed to burning, dark slits. Head tilting, a furrow between his sharp slanting brows, and the full bloom of his mouth pressed as thin as it could in an inquisitive, calculating scowl that Jim was intimately familiar with. His gaze slid from Jim to the hallway that housed the door at its mouth, and the demon that stood behind it.

“You were not expecting this visitor.”

It wasn’t a question, but Jim shook his head all the same, arms wrapping about his own waist in a loose, lopsided embrace. It was as close to contact as he would get without disturbing Sybok’s alcohol induced slumber, and he didn’t dare move, watching instead as calculation became inspiration in Spock’s eyes, setting a light behind them that he normally only equated with chess matches at the dining table across the room.

“No, no and I just-“

“You are afraid.”

Spock’s voice was stern, and there was a cold influx to it, predatory and vicious, as if he had been given some great secret to guard. His expression turned harsh for the briefest of moments, a flash of fury come and gone so quickly that Jim wasn’t sure if he had really seen it at all, and then Spock began to move.

Fingers raking carelessly through his hair, the already tussled strands stood on end in a manner that spoke of origins obscene, and Jim watched as a flush crested on the sharp of his cheeks, emerald against the rest of his skin. The pounding came again from the door, shouting that he couldn’t discern, for his attention was caught instead on the way that Spock simply dropped sleep pants that looked like they’d come from Sybok until they pooled with the blanket, stepping out of his briefs at the same time. Jim choked on his next breath, eyes drawn downward, and he watched the beginning change to Spock’s body that indicated arousal, an emerald flush to his growing erection and a glistening sheen that began to steadily pool from the head, before his gaze shot upwards once more, astounded by what he was witnessing.

There was a faint smirk on those lips, something he wouldn’t have recognized if he hadn’t known where to look, and the usual alert poise along Spock’s shoulders became languid, turned liquid and lazy from his shoulders to his spine. There was a swing to his hips as he walked past Jim, and it was with a gob smacked expression that Jim tripped over himself to follow the other, caught between fascination and horror as Spock strode to the door.

Hiding around the corner, just out of sight but well within range to hear the words that were said, Jim held his breath as the door was pulled open.

“Jim baby-who the fuck are _you_? Oh my god, why are you naked!”

Pressing his hands over his mouth, as if to hold in whatever sound he may make, Jim stared at the wall opposite his hiding place with wide eyes. Gary sounded furious and scandalized all at once, and he fought the urge to shrink against the wall from that tone.

“I am Spock.”

“Why are you naked! Where the fuck is Jim!”

“My Jim is otherwise occupied, as was I before you deemed it proper to offensively disturb our activities in such a manner.”

Swallowing thickly, breathing heavy, the implication in those words was impossible to ignore. While he knew better, knew damn well that their _activities_ had been nothing more than sleep, Gary didn’t, and the insinuation there had a crimson rush climbing the skin of his throat, his cheeks. Calculating, condescending, Spock was a bastard, a genius, but he was in his element all the same, using his words as a weapon in the way Jim had only ever witnessed him do with his fellow scientists.

 _My Jim_.

“What, so he just spreads his ass for anybody now?”

Callus words, meant to offend and to hurt, and Jim closed his eyes, head twisting away from the sound of their voices. He knew better than to take it seriously, had been told and accused of far worse things, but never in front of Spock.

“It is of little consequence to you whether I am sexually engaged with Jim, for he is his own person, and any whom he considers worthy of his time and his body is given a most precious gift. That aside, I am well aware of the restraining order put in place against your person, of which you are in violation by being within this building. I suggest that you leave, Mr Mitchell.”

Vulcan’s didn’t see the logic in a lie. He should have been more concerned with how and why Spock knew not only Gary’s name, but about the restraining order, but his mind was tangled around the fact that Vulcan’s found no logic in the act of a lie, and Spock had-Spock thought he was a _gift_.

“Or what?”

He imagined Spock’s head tilting, those dark eyes narrowing and one single brow rising high against his forehead. A contemplative, yet ferocious expression, challenging and depreciating all at once, more than enough to cow any man.

“Or I will remove you from the premise myself. We are on the seventh floor, Mr Mitchell, and I can assure you, it would be my utmost pleasure to introduce you to the distance between the balcony and the sidewalk below.”

A sharp inhale, Jim couldn’t tell if it belonged to Gary or himself, but he heard stumbling feet beating a hasty retreat. Just the same, Spock shut the door, sliding the latches into place. His head tilted, gaze finding Jim’s own wide eyes, and a single quirk of his brow was all he gave before he strode toward the couch, donning his briefs and sweats while Jim tried to catch his breath, eyes squeezing shut.

Moments later, gentle fingers touched the back of his hand, drawing his attention to the way that his hands were not only still clasped over his mouth, but also how close Spock stood. Dark eyes watched him with that same look he couldn’t name, and there was something contemplative in the angle of his head before the Halfling evidently found what it was he searched for. Taking Jim by the wrist, as if he were a child, it was with gentle care that Spock led him to sit at the island that separated the living room from the kitchen while he busied himself at the sink.

Watchful, still rattled and unsure of what had just happened, Jim let his head be tilted when Spock returned with a wet paper towel.

A soft touch to the underside of his chin, tilting his head up into the light overhead, and Jim blinked, overwhelmed and feeling unsteady. Still, Spock handled him with care, gently cleaning the dried blood from his face as if the domestic, warm touch between the two of them was normal, everyday.

Yet, after the blood had all been cleaned and the damp, dirty towel set aside to be disposed of, Spock didn’t disengage. Instead, his thumb swept a soft, soothing pattern against the hinge of Jim’s jaw, and there was something soft and searching in his gaze.

“You remembered to administer your epilepsy medication before turning in, correct?”

He couldn’t seem to find his voice, and so instead, Jim nodded, breathless and wondering as the pieces started to come together. For the longer he stared, he recognized that look, guarded and gutted and endeared all at once. He had seen it hundreds of times, across a chess board, a table at their usual bistro around the corner, and on his own face in the mirror when he wanted something fierce and painful.

Throat clicking, mind whirling, Jim reached up as Spock began to pull away, catching him by the wrist.

“Jim.”

“You called me a gift, Spock. You-you called me _your_ Jim.”

He caught the faint rise and fall of that bare chest, heard the sound of a huff, of what he recognized to be exasperation and affection all at once in the exhale that spilled across those full lips. Dark eyes burning against his face, searching once more and yet fond, and Jim watched a sweet, delicate flush of emerald curl across his face once more, unbidden and uncontrolled.

“For you are most precious, Jim, in ways that I cannot begin to fully explain. Your intellect is astounding, your character genuine and kind, and you care with a compassion that should not exist in the wake of your circumstance. Aesthetically you are most pleasing, and I remain unable to give name to the exact shade of your eyes, though I do not mind the time I misplace while attempting to do so. You are a marvel, and while it is in my nature to insist that Vulcan’s do not dream, there is rarely a night that your image or your voice do not haunt me. I call you mine, for I would have you for the rest of my existence if I were permitted.”

“ _Spock_.”


End file.
